Rumplestiltskin's Final Battle: A Wee Dram of the Goldie
by darcyfarrow
Summary: Another chapter in my WIP, "Rumplestiltskin's Final Battle." Set 100 years from now, unable to care for himself, his family and friends long gone, Rumple is in a fairy-run nursing home. In this chapter, Gold makes an effort to reach out to other residents and Cerise violates policy to give him a Christmas gift he's longing for: his first taste of whiskey in fifty years.


**A/N. For a-monthly-rumbelling, January prompt: "Please don't tell anyone."**

* * *

As he'd promised, Mr. Gold assists us in preparing the Christmas Eve dinner. The whites of his eyes are cracked with red and his voice is a bit hoarse—has he been crying? He certainly wouldn't be the only one. Despite the staff's best efforts to make certain no one feels left out, there's not much we can do to compensate for the fact that some of our residents have no family or friends on the outside. On an average day, those residents can overlook their aloneness, socializing with other residents and keeping busy with hobbies, but tonight, with the majority of the residents out on visits, the family-less among us stand out like sore thumbs. So as we cook, with the culinary tasks giving us an excuse to break eye contact whenever we need to, I confront the elephant in the room head-on.

"It can be rough this time of year for those of us who don't have families." I'm running straight into battle. "Me included."

Her hands deep in dough, Ms. Schulman cocks her head. She's a small, white-haired lady with a faint German accent and rosy cheeks, a vision of grandmotherliness that belongs on a box of oatmeal, and she's every bit as sweet as her image. "You, Cherry? You have no family? I confess, I never thought to ask. I am sorry to say I forget sometimes you staff members have lives outside the Home."

I smile at her, grateful that she's assisting me with my endeavor to broach this dangerous topic. But before I can jump onto the thought train she's fueling, Mr. Herman, whose ego feeds on correcting others, interjects, "Not all of them. You forget the androids, Bessie. They have no lives outside. It could even be argued they have no lives, period." He waves a bunch of carrots in the air as a sort of victory flag.

"That's correct, Mr. Herman. The androids are a vital part of our staff and we shouldn't overlook them." I allow him enough to stroke his ego, but I need to steer us back to the main subject. "But the reason I brought this up is that I wanted to ask if there's anything more I might do to make this a better Christmas for you."

"This is a good start." Ms. Lucas, perched at the stainless steel table, is peeling potatoes the old-fashioned way. We could just run them through a machine; in less than two minutes, they'd come out the other end peeled and uniformly diced or sliced or lumplessly mashed. Hand-cutting will take ten times as long, but we've all agreed we want a hands-on experience tonight. We want to feel the heat rising from the water we're boiling, we want to hear the sizzle of the meat in the pan, we want to smell the aroma of baking bread. Somehow, the meal will seem more real, if it's come from our hands. "I feel like I'm doing something useful for a change. It's been years since I cooked."

"And you know, in her day, Ruby was a good cook, better even than her granny," Mr. Page casts a blushing glance at her from across the table, where he, too, is peeling potatoes under her tutelage. He's been awkwardly flirting with her ever since he moved into the Home last year. His hesitation comes from simple shyness—he's confided to me that his last date was thirty years ago—but Ruby's lack of response is due to her reluctance to get romantically involved ("I mean, where can it go?" she's shrugged. "I don't see a snug little bungalow with a white picket fence in our future.").

"Oh, I just applied what Granny taught me and expanded on it a bit," she says now. Then she frowns down at the potato in her hand. "Look at me now. I'm the granny."

"Life sure went by fast, didn't it. Like this." Mr. Branson breaks a fresh green bean with a definitive snap. "One minute you're learning how to walk without your mama's hand to hold, the next you're. . .learning how to walk with a walker."

Ms. Schulman is perturbed by the direction the conversation is taking. "Come on now, people, we have a lovely, warm home to live in, we have fresh food prepared with our own hands, Christmas is tomorrow and we are _not alone_." She fixes each of them with a firm stare.

"She's right," Mr. Page agrees. "Okay, so we don't have families to go home to, but this isn't too bad, is it? What is family, anyway, but people you live with?"

From his post beside the oven, Mr. Gold pipes up for the first time tonight. "'A collective body of persons who live in one house and under one head or management.' According to _Black's Law Dictionary_ , anyway." He closes his eyes briefly as his cooking partner, Ms. Hua, bends to bring a spoon to his lips. He sniffs at the spoon's contents, then takes a small sip, then nods. "Very good, Ms. Hua. A pinch more pepper, I think."

"Well, then, if the law says we're family, we're family." Mr. Herman spreads his hands, signaling his belief that there's nothing more to say on the subject. "Just don't expect me to include you all in my will."

"Pour it over the fatty side, Ms. Hua. And now it must sit out for a few minutes, so the roast can breathe."

"And an hour for the bread to rise," Ms. Schulman pronounces, covering her bowl with a damp dishtowel.

"Thank you for the cooking lesson, Mr. Gold." Ms. Hua sets the roasting pan on the counter and brushes her hands together with great satisfaction. "We're going to have a tasty roast, I think."

"You are a talented sous chef, Ms. Hua."

I'm as pleased with them as they are with their roast. Ms. Hua, usually brusque and judgmental, is going out of her way to be considerate of a man she seldom speaks to; Mr. Gold, usually anti-social and judgmental, is going out of his way to be patient and complimentary. These are their Christmas gifts to each other.

Mr. Gold addresses the room: "It will be approximately ninety minutes before the roast is ready."

"In the meantime, if anyone's feeling peckish, I've got carrot and celery sticks," Mr. Happy sets a tray in the center of the worktable.

"And perhaps we could break the sugar-free rule just for tonight?" Mr. Gold suggests and presses a button on his armrest. Immediately Andy enters with a cake pan, which he sets beside the veggie tray. He lifts the cover to reveal three rows of white-frosted cupcakes. They're not uniform in size, the red stars decorating the frosting are somewhat crooked, but I can testify that they taste perfect.

"Mmmm," Ms. Schulman pauses to admire the cupcakes, but Mr. Herman has already snatched one and is licking the frosting off the top. Ms. Lucas slaps at his hand. "Don't be a pig, Sean." With pointed delicacy, she selects a cupcake for herself. "Thank you, Mr. Gold. You baked these yourself?"

"With help," Mr. Gold admits. His voice carries a burden of weariness now. He's had a day of heavy exertion, thanks to my magic lesson, and his afternoon nap wasn't sufficient. So when he rolls back from the crowd, seeking some quiet, I don't interfere. I appreciate the effort he's made tonight and I dare to hope it's done him some good. He hasn't reached out, but he has participated in the group. If we can build on that, if we can encourage a friendship from the start he made with Ms. Hua, if we can get him to see that no one here is going to shut him out, maybe his depression will begin to lift.

"Now," I try to keep everyone active as we wait for the meal to cook. "How about some music?"

It's nearly midnight before everyone has retreated to their bedrooms and I call for lights out and dismiss all but one of the androids for the night. I know he's bone-tired, but this is my only chance to give Mr. Gold the gift I have for him, without risking getting caught. The door to his suite is closed, but light leaks out from the edges and I hear the creak of bedsprings, followed by a single cough. Sliding the gift behind my back, I rap gently; he calls for me to enter. I find him propped up by pillows, a paperback in his hand, with the House providing a focused light behind his shoulder. His hooded eyes train on me. "Ms. Cerise? Is something wrong?"

As I close the door behind me, I bring the gift to the fore. "I won't keep you; I know you need your rest. But—" I lift my present. Its shape gives away what's under the reindeer-print wrapping paper.

"Ah." His eyes dart to the door and his body stills as he listens intently for sounds in the hall. Soon satisfied, he nods. "We're safe."

I approach his bed.

His eyes light up as they take in the shape of the gift. "Is that—?"

I lay the present in his lap, just beneath his fingers as he sets the book aside. "I'd asked you what you'd like for Christmas."

"Yes, but I didn't think you could. . . ." His fingernails pick at the paper. "I know it's against the rules."

"Yeah, so, please don't tell anyone, will you? Especially Andy."

"Of course not!" He lifts his chin in mock indignation, then juts it toward the coffee table. "Those coffee cups are clean." As I fetch them, he continues to pry at the paper but he understands that I want to watch his reaction when he gets the gift unwrapped, so he waits, but only until I've returned to his side. And then he attacks, as much as his limited mobility will allow (I help him pull the paper away and toss it in the bin). He's beaming like a child with a new bicycle when the gift is finally free of the prancing reindeer. It's a grin unfettered; I've never seen him so unreserved. If I'd had an inkling how much joy a single bottle of whiskey could bring him, I'd have sneaked one in sooner.

His fingers ghost over the raised lettering on the label. "McCutcheon 2010." He tilts the bottle in his lap so the light falls on it. "It's beautiful. Look how it reflects the light like tiny jewels." He suddenly looks a little worried. "We'll have to disguise the bottle somehow. The androids are so thorough in their cleaning."

"I researched that and I have a solution." On his windowsill is an antique copper teapot, one of the keepsakes from the pawnshop he used to own. Normally it contains a snake plant, but I'd sneaked into his room earlier this week and transferred that plant to a ceramic container. I carry the teapot to him now. "History has it that distillery workers used to hide whiskey in copper teapots so they could sneak a drink or two at work. The whiskey will keep very well there. Trust me, I scrubbed it out thoroughly."

His tone is admiring. "Ms. Cerise, I am most grateful for your ingenuity as well as your daring." He nods at the cups. "Please pour. But go lightly; it's been fifty years since I had a wee dram of the goldie."

The copper pot legend was not the only question I researched: I know a single ounce of spirits won't react badly with his medications. And that's how we'll consume this bottle, an ounce at a time, so he can savor it and remember when the rules of the house were those he himself established and his body answered to him, not the other way around. He's a connoisseur (or was, when he was in full possession of his life) of spirits, food, clothes, music, paintings, and to him, these things are to be sampled, not guzzled, in full cognizance of their history, their legends, and the science and artistry that go into their production.

"A dram it is," I agree, as I pour a finger of elixir into his cup, then the same amount into mine. We raises our cups and he makes the toast: "Here's a bottle and an honest man/What would ye wish for mair, man?" We clink, and I wait to sip my drink until he's had the first taste of his. Just watching him relish the freedom of this moment gives me far more enjoyment than drinking ever could. His reaction doesn't disappoint: he pushes his nose into the cup, breathes in, then withdraws his nose and closes his lips over the edge of the cup. Slowly he tilts the cup back, granting the amber access to his tongue; holding the whiskey in his mouth, he rests his head back against the headboard, his eyes closed. He seems reluctant to swallow, as if this is the last sip he'll ever take, the last sip in existence, but when I begin to wonder if he's fallen asleep, his adam's apple finally bobs and he sighs. His voice is husky as he shares his verdict with me: "It's as good as I remember." Then he turns his head toward me, opens his eyes and smiles. "Ah, but you haven't tasted yours yet."

"I haven't your palate." I raise my cup and dutifully sniff, but I don't really know what I'm supposed to be smelling; then I take a half-mouthful. It burns and makes me cough, forcing me to gulp the whiskey down. I don't want to disappoint Mr. Gold, but I can't help but wince.

He chuckles. "Not a devotee of the waters of life, then?"

"Oh, I did some barhopping in college, but I could never afford more than beer."

"Try another. Sip, don't toss it back like cod liver oil, and let it linger on your tongue."

He watches in amusement as I try again, not choking this time, but I still wrinkle my nose at the burn. "Sorry, I think I'll stick to O'Doul's."

"Ah well then." He feels free now to concentrate on his own wee dram, sampling it in slow sips. For several minutes the whiskey has his full attention, then he peers forlornly into the cup and pronounces, "Not enough left to wet the tongue, alas." We both look to the nearly full bottle waiting on his nightstand.

"I'd pour you another, but your meds—"

He shakes his head. "No, the anticipation will make tomorrow night's dram all the tastier." He licks his lips and sinks into his pillows. "I'll sleep well tonight, Sparrow. Thank you."

I rinse out the cups in his bathroom, then I pour the whiskey into the copper teapot. A glance tells me that true to his word, Mr. Gold is sound asleep. I tuck the empty bottle under my staff jacket and ease out into the hall.

* * *

At the rate of one ounce per drink per night, I estimate that we have about eight nights of McCutcheon. Sixteen violations of the zero-alcohol policy; seven more opportunities to get caught. I think we can pull it off. I think we need to pull it off: after all, what business does Blue have in taking away such a small pleasure from a four-hundred-some-year-old man who'll spend the rest of his immortal life in a wheelchair?

This last thought dampens my mood as I join nine of my charges in the dining room, where the androids are serving breakfast. I sigh twice over as I greet my breakfast companions: we're back to the nutritionist-prescribed low-fat, sugar-free, salt-free diet for another 364 days, and Mr. Gold is absent. I'd had a split second of guilty concern when Andy informed me that Mr. Gold had requested his breakfast be brought to his room—surely that single ounce of whiskey hadn't given him a hangover—or counteracted his meds—or sent him into a black mood. I don't say anything about my worries to Andy, of course, but the android knows what sort of information I require in the morning reports, so he tells me, "Mr. Gold said he simply felt the need for some personal time this morning. He was awake and spoke to me when I first entered his room, and seemed in a pleasant mood as I bathed him, though his mobility was reduced to five percent."

I'd intended then to bypass the dining hall to check on Mr. Gold, but Andy had assured me that he'd already finished his breakfast, in full, and had gone back to bed. Andy had left another android in the room with him, just in case. "If I may, the others are asking for you. They're eager for breakfast to be concluded so they can retreat to the rec room for the gift distribution."

Oh yes. I'd almost forgotten that I'd arranged for "Santa" (actually our receptionist, Jonquil) to pop in and distribute the gifts that have sat under the lobby Christmas tree. Each of the residents will receive a little something—something useful, like scarves or slippers—from the staff; my ten charges will receive something small from me (my paycheck lacks elasticity); and there will be some exchanges among friends. I've checked: no one's giving or will be receiving gifts from Mr. Gold, but he'll still have the one from Blue, the one from the mayor and (ugh) the one from Keres, if he chooses to keep it. There's also a Christmas card from a "Josiah Dove III" and a thick envelope for him from a "Richard Tracey, PI." Blue has assured me, and Andy has confirmed it, that Mr. Gold never has participated in the exchange, never even shows up for it in fact, and I suspect today will be no exception, considering his health. I'd hoped, after his participation last night, he might join in, but I'll take his gifts to him when he awakens. He won't be left out, not on my watch.

I'm kept busy the rest of the morning, though I take hourly updates on Mr. Gold's condition (unchanging, still sleeping peacefully). These people need me too, even though this is a fun day for them; they want to share their joys with me. I see among them the beginnings of new friendships that need be fostered, and one would-be relationship that needs to be discouraged. I worry that in her tendency toward impatience and bluntness, Ms. Lucas will hurt Mr. Page's feelings. Your crush isn't a bad thing, I will remind him: this just shows you still can love. Someone here will prove to be the right match for you, if you just keep reaching out. And as for Ms. Lucas, we'll have a chat about ways to let a suitor down easy. She's had much more experiences with that than I have; I just need to remind her.

After Santa's departure but before lunch, Andy reports that Mr. Gold is up and reading, so I load Mr. Gold's gifts onto a floating cart and steer them down to his room. I rap on the door, receive an invitation to enter, and sweep in, immediately honing in on his biopanel. Assured that the vitals are normal, I ask him how he's feeling.

He's in his bed, a book on his lap. "Like I'm swimming in mud. Holding my book is proving difficult. But I had a nap and otherwise feel rested."

I drag the rocking chair around to face the bed and I seat myself. "Shall we have tea?"

He glances out the window, judging the time by the sun's position. "Not yet." We normally take our tea around three o'clock.

I follow his gaze and learn that the garden is dusted with fresh snow. This gives me an idea. "Shall we go outside and stroll the garden?"

"Perhaps tomorrow."

I next eye the copper teapot. "A wee dram of the goldie?"

This wins me a grin. "Tonight, please. Anticipation adds a dimension to the flavor."

I grin back. This little secret between us is good for his health, gives him something to look forward to. Then it occurs to me that a man who's spent fifty years in a Home he'll never get out of probably stops looking forward. Nobody can keep going without hope, even such a small one, so any guilt I have for breaking a rule blows away. "Tonight, after bedtime. How about opening your gifts now?"

He grants me that, though his heavy eyelids show he's still tired. With a flick of a finger, he gives me permission to unwrap them. I start with the thick envelope. "Want me to open this?"

"A little later. Let's get to the presents."

I leave the envelope on his bed so he can reach it at his convenience, then I take up the smallest box and read the very practical card: "To Mr. Gold from the staff."

"In other words, from Blue," he clarifies. "Same as every year. Let's see, this is an odd-numbered year, so it will be mittens."

"She does knit them herself." I dare to tear the wrapping paper, though I'm sure Blue would prefer me to save it. "Yup, mittens. Yellow." I hold one up for him to admire.

"And Ms. Lucas will get red ones, Mr. Smee will get foam green, etcetera."

I have to nod; that's exactly what they got.

"I do wish one year she'd give us gloves. Mittens are so undignified."

I set that box aside and reach for the long, flat one. "From Greenie."

This gets a reaction from him; his blood stirs, darkening his cheeks, and his lips draw back from his teeth. "Send it back."

"I think it's clothes." I toss the box onto the coffee table.

"A vintage silk smoking jacket. In that message from last week, she let it slip that she'd spent two hundred on it."

"Well, everyone knows Mr. Gold wears only the best," I quip, and that gets a snort from him.

His lips curl up, half smile, half snarl. "That envelope is from my investigator. It's thick, so obviously he's finished his work. Operation Get Rid of Greenie can commence."

I next select a box I'm sure he'll like. "From the Immigration Committee and Mayor McIntosh." I lay the card on his knee so he can read the signatures. "'To one of our town founders, without whom Storybrooke wouldn't exist.'" Mayor K. T. means it sincerely, though, when one reflects on the town's beginnings, the message could be taken as ironic.

For the first time, he lets me hear his imp giggle in person (I've heard it in holoplays). "Well, it is true, dearie. I was the final author of the First Curse."

I remove the candy-cane striped wrapping paper, then lift the lid and turn the box around so he can see the contents. "It's a coffee table book." I've already seen it, at this month's committee meeting, where everyone signed the card. It's heavy so instead of laying it on his lap, I set it at his side, on the bed. He admires the embossed lettering on the faux leather cover: " _A Photographic History of Storybrooke, Maine_ by Grace Hatter Mills." He lifts his head. "Henry's wife. I remember when she started working on this. Spent long hours in the library, City Hall and the newspaper archives." He manages to control his forefinger long enough to stroke the lettering. "Such a smart young woman. And as immobile as a mountain—she took a lot of guff when she announced this project. Most of the town felt that we needed no reminders of our dark history. But Henry and her father stood beside her, and eventually, Regina came on board. When the book was finished, Grace tried to get the _Mirror_ to publish it; the newspaper was the closest thing we had to a publisher. They refused when Albert Spencer threatened to sue. But an anonymous donor came forward." The glint in his eye tips me off as to who the donor was. He flips the cover open and reads the dedication: "'To Henry, who always insisted our story matters, and to everyone who lived it. GHM.'" He flips to the first page, a color image of Regina Mills, standing arms folded in front of City Hall. Beneath that photo is a black-and-white one of a scroll with tiny, archaic handwriting. "This book will have pride of place on my coffee table."

He's quiet as I dispose of the empty boxes and wrapping paper. When I'm about to sit down again, he suggests in a hushed voice, "Ms. Cerise, if you think it won't be a problem, maybe we could have our McCutcheon now."

I check the hallway before locking his door and fetching two cups.

"I'm afraid you'll have to hold my cup for me. I apologize for the trouble."

"No trouble, Mr. Gold." I pour a fingerful of the goldie into one of the cups; the second cup gets just a splash. At his disappointed frown, I explain, "Whiskey's just too strong for me."

"Add a drop or two of water." When I hesitate, he assures me, "It's not cheating, Sparrow. In fact, it's recommended for those newly come to the mash."

I reach for the water pitcher on his coffee table and drown the dram; he chuckles, a warm sound low in the back of his throat. I remove the book so I can sit on the edge of his bed, and I raise both cups. "A toast, Mr. Gold?"

"The conviviality of the barley calls for a less formal address. Please call me Rumplestiltskin." He clears his throat before pronouncing the toast: "May the Lord hold you in the palm of His hand and never close His fist too tight on you."

"I like that," I giggle as I bring his cup to his lips. "Ready for a taste, Rumplestiltskin?"

"Aye." He licks his lips in preparation. "More than ready."

I watch him closely for a signal of when he's taken enough; he lifts his chin and I take the cup away, then sip from my own. I can barely taste the whiskey. I think this is how I'll prefer my drink from now on. As before, he closes his eyes as he holds the whiskey in his mouth. When at last he swallows, he sighs. "Just as good as yesterday. One more for the time being, and then tell me about your committee work. I believe you had your first meeting last week?"

I give him another sip before setting his cup on the nightstand. "Week before last. So far, so good. We approved two applications, both with flying colors. They'll be applying for college in the spring. I thought I should recuse myself from the first case, because I know the student personally; a sister of my best friend from high school. I thought I might be guilty of favoritism, but the committee just laughed at that. The mayor said, 'If we recused ourselves from every applicant we know, no applications would ever get voted on.'"

He nods. "In a town this size, that's no overstatement."

"In fact, the committee considers information gained from personal acquaintance to be valid and valuable. Another?" I raise his cup and when he nods, I give him a sip. "We had a third application we had to vote 'no' on. I was torn about it. It was a woman who's running away from her abusive husband. She has no money, no job skills, no friends or family in the Land Without Magic, no plan—just a tremendous fear of her husband. We referred her to the Battered Spouses' Shelter. They'll hide her until she can raise funds and find a sponsor in the LWM. Still, in a town this size. . . ."

"You're worried her husband will find her." When I nod, he continues, "You could help her."

He stares pointedly at my hands until I catch on. "Magic?"

"A glamour spell. Her husband will never recognize her. Of course Blue could do it, if you don't feel up to it, but. . . ."

I hang my head. "Yeah. Could, but she won't."

"The Blue Fairies struggle with subtle magic like glamour spells. For them it's usually an all-or-nothing transaction: they change a puppet into a boy, or a man into a grasshopper. A glamour spell doesn't change the spell's subject; it changes everyone else's vision of the subject. And it requires frequent updating." He pauses to let me consider. "Are you game for it, Cerise?"

"I don't. . . I mean, it would be dangerous, a novice like me. . . ."

"Guided by a teacher like me. You have sufficient power; you just need to hone it. We could start small. And of course, the subject would have to agree to it."

"I want to help, really I do, but. . . ."

He backs down. "I understand, Sparrow. Someday, perhaps. In the meantime, perhaps an anonymous donor can solve the funding problem, if the committee will work with her on the sponsorship one."

I squirm, feeling that I'm damned if I won't, but the runaway wife could be damned if I do and fail. He gives me an out. "Another sip, please, my friend." He smacks his lips playfully. "Ah, McCutcheon's. Now there's true magic."


End file.
